BY PHIL. HODGSON.
To sing of some nymph in her cot,
Each bard will oft flourish his quill:
I'm glad it has fall'n to my lot,
To celebrate Jesmond Mill.
When Spring hither winds her career,
Our trees and our hedges to fill,
Vast oceans of verdure appear,
To charm you at Jesmond Mill.
To plant every rural delight,
Mere Nature has lavish'd her skill;
Here fragrant soft breezes unite,
To wanton round Jesmond Mill.
When silence each evening here dwells,
The birds in their coverts all still;
No music in sweetness excels
The clacking of Jesmond Mill.
Reclin'd by the verge of the stream,
Or stretch'd on the side of the hill,
I'm never in want of a theme,
While learning at Jesmond Mill.
Sure Venus some plot has design'd,
Or why is my heart never still,
Whenever it pops in my mind,
To wander near Jesmond Mill.
My object, ye swains, you will guess,
If ever in love you had skill;
And now I will frankly confess,
'Tis—Jenny of Jesmond Mill.